WHO: Heather & Sam, then [OPEN to Kira Ford, Elisabeth Braddock, Drusilla, Dawn Summers, Vassago] WHAT: The second day of the ritual, with a long-ass narrative of insanity/angst beforehand. WHEN: Starting tonight around seven. WHERE: Heather's apartment, then various places. RATING: R. STATUS: Incomplete.
Heather was standing in the bathroom, fixing up the second batch of needles and various other medical supplies she would need for her second trip around the city, collecting blood and weapons from the guilty and simply drawing blood from the innocent. Then, she would have to take everything back to the abandoned hospital and stab Alessa once more, just to hear her scream and watch her writhe in pain. It was all supposed to be worth it in the end. Pyramid Head would be gone and he couldn't hurt anyone else. This wouldn't have been so bad to deal with if it wasn't for the fact that Los Angeles was turning into Silent Hill in the most rawest of ways. The fog, the decay, the smell, the gore, the monsters. No one else knew what was going on, at least not very many, but she did. That was why she'd pushed herself to make a post on the internet, but she hadn't been able to say much. Hopefully, the people who thought they could go out and investigate would instead heed her words and stay inside until this was over. This wasn't their world. It was hers now.
"Heather."
She didn't look up from the bag she was holding, propped up on the bathroom sink. "Stop it, Dad."
"Heather."
"I said stop it." She gripped the bag hard until her knuckles turned white and her hands shook as if tremors were going through them.
"If you wouldn't have been given to me in Silent Hill, then I could've walked away from that nightmare and never looked back. Keeping you gave me a connection with it for the rest of my life. That's why I died, that's why Claudia sent that monster after me. You know that, don't you? Of course you do. Look at yourself. Your scars. Think about how many times you wanted to take that blade to your own throat. Think about how many times you actually tried." The watered down image of Harry Mason chuckled quietly. "You know."
"Shut up!" Heather finally looked up, eyes blazing as she turned in the direction her father's voice was coming from. However, when she did, there was nothing there. Her heart was pounding and she was breathing heavily, eyes flicking about, but there was no one else in the room with her. She let out a shuddering breath and swallowed hard, doing everything in her power to calm herself. She needed to go out and do what needed to be done. This would be over soon. She just had to keep telling herself that.
Slowly, she lifted her head and looked into the mirror. Immediately, a gasp left her when she saw her reflection.
She was staring at herself, but a distorted, grotesque version of herself. There was blood dripping down her face, almost coloring her red entirely. It was matted into her hair and running down her throat, though there didn't appear to be any wounds for the blood to be coming from. And her eyes were black. Black, empty, lifeless. But there was a sneer on the reflection's face, and before Heather could move, a bloody, slick arm pushed through the glass, fingers curling around her throat and squeezing until she was gasping and choking for air. She clawed at the wrist, but she couldn't manage to loosen it's grip on her. It continued to nearly crush her windpipe until, all of a sudden, the arm pulled back towards itself. Instead of Heather going through the glass as the bloodied version of herself had been able to do, she went into it, the mirror shattering in her face and cutting her profusely. She let out a strangled cry before she was then pushed backwards. It caused her to stumble as she lifted her hands to her bleeding face, and when she lost her footing, the back of her head hit the bathtub hard.
That had been an hour ago. Heather was now sitting on the couch after having spoken to Sam and agreeing that he could go out with her. She knew she could take care of the monsters herself, she'd done it before, but she wanted a distraction. Sam had told her he could help make it stop, and she had to believe him. She still hadn't washed up after the incident in the bathroom, but mostly because she just didn't care. The largest slice was across the bridge of her nose, with a few others scattered around her features. Blood was smeared from her forehead to her chin, but thankfully, she'd closed her eyes and hadn't gotten any glass in them to do serious damage. There was also some strange bruising around her neck, as if she'd been burned in the shape of a hand, but she wasn't paying any mind to that, either. She was just waiting for Sam.
Waiting, and trying to ignore her father sitting on the coffee table in front of her, goading her to kill herself for what she'd done to him.